


Loyalty for Sale

by TechnoXenoHolic



Series: Aboard the Prosperity [2]
Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Shockwave, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Multi, post-season 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-08-29 13:09:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8490988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TechnoXenoHolic/pseuds/TechnoXenoHolic
Summary: Shockwave’s plan is finally coming to fruition. Megatron’s rescue is successful—but Megatron has been replaced by someone else. Someone different. Someone named Galvatron.And Galvatron is an unstable menace. All he wants is destruction and revenge.Now, Shockwave must take a different course of action. If it’s destruction and revenge that Galvatron wants, then Shockwave will give it to him.Once again, Swindle aids Shockwave in his mission. Along the way, they’re joined by a few other bots, all at varying levels of helpfulness. Adding to the struggle of it all, Shockwave and Swindle still have to avoid Lockdown—the bounty hunter who wants both of them offline for the way Swindle betrayed him.And caught in the middle of it all, Blurr just wants to go home.





	1. Down Payment

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I don’t have access to the Allspark Almanac and I’m making a lot of this up off the top of my head. Rule of good story triumphs over accuracy on the minute details.

Trypticon prison was horribly quiet. Each cell was perfectly soundproofed. The occupants’ only source of sound was their own vocalizers. It turned some of the quietest of bots into incorrigible chatterboxes just to mitigate the tension brought by the pressing silence.

Even Shockwave found the quiet to be debilitating. Only his desire not to pester Megatron kept him from humming to hold the silence at bay.

Megatron seemed not to mind the quietness. He stared unfalteringly at the energy bars of the cell containing him and Shockwave both, a glare set into his features. It was as if he thought he could scowl his way to freedom. And, much as he hated to question his leader, Shockwave was growing tired of it. Megatron had kept this up for so many solar cycles that both mechs had lost count.

“Pardon me, Excellency,” Shockwave spoke. His voice rasped with disuse—the last time he’d spoken had been when his Kremzeek program had been activated.

Megatron jolted out of his staring and turned a curious look on Shockwave. “Yes?”

“Far be it for me to tell you what to do, but might I suggest some more productive means of orchestrating an escape?”

Megatron sighed. “Have you any suggestions, Shockwave?”

“I do, my liege.” Shockwave lowered his optic shutter a little, trying to find any way he could to express proper subservience with his stasis cuffs keeping him so perfectly immobile. “Unfortunately, it hinges on the assumption that we will be able to escape these cuffs somehow. I am working on a number of ideas, but I don’t have anything for certain just yet.”

“Well, tell me—” Megaton cut himself off at the sound of pedesteps echoing from the direction of the nearest stairwell. “No. Later.”

“Of course,” Shockwave murmured, and he went just as silent as Megatron.

The Autobot pedesteps drew nearer. Megatron and Shockwave both kept their gazes on the door—because Shockwave was backed against the wall nearer to where they came from, however, he was unable to see the Autobots until after they unlocked the cell (the two Decepticons were in stasis cuffs; what further purpose could that lock possibly serve?) and stepped inside.

“Great news, Megatron,” said one Autobot. Shockwave recognized neither her frame nor her face—but he didn’t like the casual way that she spoke to his leader. “You’re getting a private cell today.”

Megatron and Shockwave locked optics for a nanocycle. Surely, the same thought ran through both their processors: somehow the Autobots must have known that they were beginning to think of escaping.

The Decepticon leader turned his gaze away from Shockwave so quickly the cycloptic mech almost thought the glance might not have happened. He glared at the Autobots standing in front of him. “You presume that I _want_ to be separated from my most loyal Decepticon,” he said. “It is not such great news.”

As much as he appreciated the praise, Shockwave wished Megatron wouldn’t bait the Autobots like this.

“That’s just it, Megatron,” said another bot. Shockwave did recognize this one—Optimus Prime. “You know we can’t trust you around any Decepticon that might try to break you out somehow—no matter how unlikely. You’re going to spend a long time in prison for the things you’ve done.”

“Well,” Megatron said, and he sounded a strange mix of pleasant and exasperated. “We can’t let the murderous freedom fighters _have_ their freedom, can we?”

The Autobots exchanged glances and wheeled the platform Megatron stood stasis-cuffed upon out of the cell.

“They shall not break me, sire,” Shockwave called after him. “Not in a million stellar cycles.”

“See that they don’t,” Megatron replied, his tone cold.

The energy-barred cell door swung back into place with a buzz and a scrape of slightly rusted hinges, and Shockwave was left on his own to seethe inwardly at the injustice of it all.

**‡**

The megacycles passed by slowly. Shockwave hummed softly and stared at the flickering of the energy bars locking him into his cell, memorizing the patterns of the slight variations in their energy levels.

And he thought about how he would escape from this mess.

Watching the energy bars’ subtle fluctuations, Shockwave got an idea. The pulses of energy were weaker in places. Perhaps the stasis cuffs functioned in a similar way.

Shockwave shut his optic and, for the first time, he focused intently on the static crawling through his systems instead of tuning it out.

The cycles passed. Shockwave shut down his noisiest non-mandatory internal systems and turned off his audials for better focus. He attuned his sensory antennae to the electrical signals streaking through his own frame and waited, absorbing the sensory input, for as long as he could bear the silence.

A pattern not his own gradually emerged.

Suddenly excited, Shockwave tried adjusting the electricity circulation of his frame to match the energy holding him in stasis. Then, perhaps, the interfering rhythms of his own systems and the cuffs would no longer cause motive inability.

Following the pattern of the stasis cuffs’ energy field did nothing but lull Shockwave into a near-comatose state, however. He jolted himself out of it and blinked his optic rapidly to clear the fuzz from his processor.

Perhaps a different trick.

Shockwave’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching pedes. More Autobots. He narrowed his optic in disdain.

When the Autobots entered the cell, Shockwave recognized none of them. They must have been intentionally using new recruits or low-level Elite Guard newbies that Shockwave wouldn’t recognize, the spy surmised, so that he couldn’t use any mental tricks against them. A pity; that might have been enjoyable.

The smaller bots stared up at Shockwave with varying degrees of wariness and awe. “I didn’t think he was this tall,” said one.

“I can change that,” Shockwave said, his tone flat. The Autobots jumped.

One recovered quicker than the others and drew himself up to his full height. It was laughable compared to Shockwave’s. “We’re here to take you to a new cell, Decepticon,” he declared.

“Go on, then,” said Shockwave darkly. “I cannot stop you.”

The Autobots still hesitated before moving Shockwave’s platform from its place and rolling him out into the cellblock hall.

As amused as he was, Shockwave made no comment on the Autobots’ skittish behavior. He instead turned his thoughts inwards. This would be the perfect time to make his escape, as long as he could get out of his stasis cuffs. He thought hard about all what he’d figured out on that subject so far—following the energy patterns he’d picked up from the stasis cuffs with his own systems pushed him further into stasis.

The answer was suddenly obvious. Instead of matching the pattern of energy fluctuations, it made far more sense to _oppose_ them—cancel them out. Shockwave wasted no time wondering why he hadn’t thought of that first—only threw the new hypothesis into action immediately. Simply playing a counter-rhythm to the stasis cuffs’ energy with his own electrical systems turned up promising results—but while it was enough that he felt the tenseness start to ebb slightly from his frame, Shockwave still couldn’t move.

Frustrated, he ramped up the amperage.

His talons crackled and sparked—there was a fizzle, Shockwave’s circuits sang with excess electricity, and the cuffs fell. They hit the floor with a clatter, smoking faintly.

An Autobot screamed.

“Well, now,” Shockwave said smoothly. He extended his frame, positively _loomed_ over the Autobots beneath him, and stepped off of the platform he’d been imprisoned upon. “That’s _much_ better. Let’s move on to more important business, shall we?”

The spy snapped one hand out and grabbed the closest Autobot by the helm. She shrieked—he slammed her into the wall. He leaned his face close to the Autobot’s, squeezing her helm between his claws. “Tell me, Autobot. Where is Megatron?” he said softly.

“I don’t know!” she whimpered.

Shockwave half-shuttered his optic. “What a pity,” he said. He crushed the Autobot’s helm into the wall and let her lifeless frame drop to the ground. “Perhaps,” he continued, a little louder, and he turned to face the other Autobots, all of whom cowered—“one of _you_ knows?”

The lights suddenly flashed deep magenta. A siren wailed. Shockwave cursed under his breath.

He turned and ran.

There was no time to look for Megatron now—not when the Autobots would be sending armed guards to detain him. He could fight one of them, perhaps two, but his primary advantage in a fight against many was intimidation. That wouldn’t work here. He had to retreat—pull back and regroup so that he could rescue Megatron from his imprisonment later on.

He needed assistance. More than just his own skill—a small army.

The Autobots chased after Shockwave after a moment, all yelling at him, but he merely ran. He thundered up the steps in a back hallway, ignored the door to his right at the top, and smashed his fist through the window on his left. Then he backed away from it as much as he could, hurtled forward for the two steps he had room for, and leapt clean through the emptied window frame.

In the air, Shockwave reshaped his form. He used a previous persona, one from before his time as Longarm Prime—it didn’t matter who the identity was, only that he was small and round and took the landing with barely a tremble in his limbs. Then Shockwave ran further, ducked into the city where the Elite Guard would have to search to find him.

He found a buymech. The taller mech—shorter if Shockwave wore his own frame, of course—seemed unsure at first, but presenting him with a significant amount of funding Shockwave had acquired during his time as Longarm Prime convinced him to quickly take Shockwave somewhere more private.

Once they were alone in the buymech’s dwelling, however, Shockwave shifted and knocked him unconscious with a heavy blow to the back of the helm. Then, after lying the mech on his berth, Shockwave sat on the end of it and thought.

He would need a new disguise if he wanted to bypass the Elite Guard. Old identities ran the risk of suspicion. Longarm Prime was, of course, especially out of the question.

He would have to come up with something much different. The Autobots would be expecting a mech who slunk and hid in the shadows to avoid detection. What they would never expect was someone sleek, someone optic-catching, someone enticing—someone like…

Yes, that would do nicely. Shockwave shut his optic, concentrated, and shifted his form.

His height decreased and his plating rearranged, his treads moving to his back and his shoulder pauldrons sliding down to hang off his shoulders in a blatantly risqué display of black protoform that would almost never be seen. His waist thinned, though only slightly, and his hips widened to redistribute the mass of his re-shaped legs. Hands replaced claws; forearms were decorated with the retracted knives his talons became.

The spy’s true face split away from his helm to reveal a false one behind it, and his neck warped to move it where it needed to go. His chest shrank inwards at the sides and bulged at the front to balance the treads on his back. His hip-mounted canisters tucked into the small of his back and his calves turned one hundred and eighty degrees so that his pedes could reshape and became tall heelstruts.

Shockwave opened his optics and looked himself over as his antennae pulled into the sides of his helm and the last of his plating settled into its new configuration. He chose a suitable altmode from the number he had stored away inside his processor, coded himself an electric paintjob in a lighter, more attractive gray-and-purple color scheme, and pulled a sly smile onto his full lips.

“I think Stiletto will do nicely,” Shockwave murmured, adjusting the tenor of his voice to a more feminine one. Satisfied with his new form, Shockwave stepped out of the buy-mech’s dwelling and strode on his way. Three Elite Guard troopers ran past him with barely a glance. Shockwave smirked faintly to himself.

Now all that he had left to do was find an easy way off of Cybertron and he could begin the preparations for his mission. His search started in the low-brow bars—places known to hide Decepticons and their sympathizers.

When he saw Swindle, the plan formed in Shockwave’s processor in only a sparkpulse. A mech so predictable would be the perfect tool for this operation. Shockwave only had to be convincing.

With all the confidence in the world, Stiletto sauntered over.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but would you happen to be Swindle?”


	2. Repossession

Swindle was in awe. He stared in slack-jawed admiration as he watched Shockwave organize the troops he had gathered completely under Swindle’s olfactory sensors. The underground laboratory was full of them—and every one of them was focused on Shockwave. The sheer scale alone of the operation Shockwave was proposing was enough to guarantee attention.

“Slipstream, you will lead your team in an assault on the main entrance of Trypticon Prison,” said Shockwave, his tone firm. Commanding. It was obvious to any who gave it a thought that he took inspiration from Megatron’s manner of speech. “The distraction will allow the rest of us to make use of Oil Slick’s particular talents to slip in through a breach here, in the empty sector.” Shockwave pointed at a section of the three-dimensional holographic map of the building that he had set up.

“We will split into three groups from there. Tarn, you and the rest of your Division will advance to this stairwell,” said the spy, and he gestured accordingly, “and prevent the Elite Guard from mounting a counterattack into the lower levels. Flamewar and Scalpel will free the prisoners in the northern cellblock. Once you’ve finished that, make your way here to stand guard over this turbolift. Strika, Oil Slick, Swindle, and Skywarp will be accompanying me down the turbolift to rescue Megatron.” Here, Shockwave paused and looked around the room. “All of you must carry out your roles without hesitation for this operation to succeed. Do you understand?”

A chorus of affirmatives rang through the laboratory, Swindle’s among them. The corner Tarn stood in rolled thick with the sound of his voice; Swindle counted his blessings to be on the other side of the room.

“Excellent,” said Shockwave. “Then we will begin tomorrow, a megacycle after the evening shift change.”

“Why tomorrow?” Strika demanded. “Why do you delay, Shockwave?”

Shockwave turned his optic to the general, lowering the shutter halfway. “I delay because I require time for preparation and because several of you require time to re-arm and practice your aim,” he said coolly. “It would not do to fail because of your impatience.”

Strika clenched her fists at her sides, frame tense. Shockwave gazed impassively back at her, unwavering.

For half a cycle or so, no bot moved.

Then Strika stepped back and relaxed. “Very well,” she said. There was still a certain aggression in her tone. “I… understand that some other bots may not be as ready as Team Chaar has always been.” She thrust her chin forward. “But we _will_ move swiftly once everything is ready.”

“Of course,” Shockwave replied. He looked around at the group of Decepticons, blinked slowly, and relaxed out of his command posture into his usual, more hunched one. “All of you, take the time to look over these schematics, practice your aim, and recharge. I want you all in top shape for this mission. Dismissed.”

As the Decepticons dispersed towards other parts of the laboratory, Shockwave turned and strode away from the holographic display. He caught Swindle’s shoulder in one clawed hand and pulled him through the crowd. “Come with me.”

Swindle immediately followed. “Sure thing,” he said, his tone chipper and a grin on his face. “Where to?”

“Just someplace out of the way,” Shockwave said vaguely. He tugged Swindle to a cranny in the corner of the lab hidden behind a large support column, then boxed the smaller mech in.

“Ah,” Swindle started, and he swallowed, suddenly feeling nervous. “What’s this for—?”

“Don’t fret, dearest,” Shockwave murmured. He stroked Swindle’s cheek with the back of his claw and leaned a little closer with a slight tilt of his helm. “I just want to be sure the others won’t hear us.”

Swindle grinned. “Moving awfully quick, aren’t we?” he teased.

Shockwave sighed deeply and lowered his optic shutter, drawing back his hand. “That isn’t what I meant,” he said. “If it was, well—never mind.”

“Another time, then?” Swindle suggested, and shrugged. “What did you need?”

Shockwave straightened. “I want to be sure you won’t cause undue strife among the ranks,” he said. When Swindle squawked in protest, the cycloptic mech gently settled one claw over his mouth for a second to quiet him. “I don’t want to hear any arguments break out over weaponry, Swindle. My forces need to be rearmed, not taken advantage of.”

Swindle sighed and rolled his optics. “Spoil my fun, why don’t you.”

“You can have your fun after Megatron has been safely removed from captivity,” said Shockwave. “I don’t want to see you injured because of your own greed.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Shockwave,” Swindle dismissed. _“I_ saved _you_ from Lockdown, not the other way around—remember?”

Shockwave shook his head with a fond sort of chuckle. “And I believe I rescued you from Carzap, the Drossian enforcers… and Lockdown once as well. It may be my turn for a favor.”

“Suuure it is,” Swindle laughed. “Fine, fine. I’ll give your tagalongs fairer prices—just this once.”

“Thank you, Swindle,” Shockwave said softly. “Make sure you get some recharge tonight. There are berths in the south corner.” He stepped back and inclined his helm slightly, optic fondly half-shuttered. “Stay safe, dearest. Now go on; you have a small army to indebt to you.”

With a grin, Swindle watched Shockwave slip out of the laboratory. He didn’t bother to follow.

**‡**

“Aren’t you a little worried about how easy it was to break into this place?”

Shockwave stalled to turn a look over his shoulder at Swindle. “Of course not,” he said evenly, then turned his head forward again to watch as the other Decepticons filed into the wide corridor from the hole beneath. “This is an unused wing of the facility.”

“And the Autobots are working to keep Decepticons _in_ the prison,” added Strika. Her baritone voice echoed menacingly down the corridor. “Not to keep them _out.”_

She hefted Flamewar through the hole in the ground with one hand, then stepped out of the way to allow Helex passage. He came up dragging Skywarp, who moaned fearfully and trembled against the hold on his wing.

“Great,” Swindle muttered. “That’s reassuring.”

“Don’t worry, dearest,” Shockwave murmured. “I’ve been planning this operation for solar cycles now.”

A crashing sound and the screams of jet engines echoed above. Sirens wailed.

Shockwave stood taller, optic scanning the group of Decepticons and mercenaries as they gathered together in the security camera deadzone. “All accounted for?” he asked. He gave a nanocycle for silence, then nodded. “Tarn, move your team into position. Flamewar, Scalpel, make haste to the northern cellblock.”

“Don’t get too used to giving orders around here,” threatened Flamewar. She glared coldly up at Shockwave, then scooped Scalpel into the air, transformed (Scalpel landed neatly on the seat of her cycle mode), and roared off. Tarn and the remainder of the DJD moved out after them.

Suddenly seeming less confident, Shockwave heaved a deep breath and adjusted his hold on his plasma cannon.

“Let’s move,” he said, and the moment of unsureness vanished.

The cycloptic mech’s small group of Decepticons turned and ran down the hallway. They passed the junction where the DJD were guarding—Vos’ gleeful exclamations followed them down the hallway as Shockwave led them on through the complex to their goal.

Autobot soldiers previously making their rounds on guard duty leapt from perpendicular hallways to stop them. One was vaporized by Shockwave’s plasma cannon. A second leapt at a cowering Skywarp and was crushed between Strika’s fists. Yet another met an untimely end to a face full of Swindle’s favorite scattershot.

And then they were there.

Shockwave skidded to a halt before the turbolift he had seen in Optimus Prime’s mind on Earth and realized as the others piled up behind him that he may have made a miscalculation.

Longarm Prime remembered the massive size of the elevators in Trypticon Prison. Shockwave now learned that they were a good deal smaller than he had thought.

But with Primus knew how many more Autobot soldiers deep in the prison complex able to bypass the DJD’s barricade, there was no time to take the turbolift twice. Shockwave subspaced his cannon and shifted, and Stiletto hastened to open the turbolift doors.

“In, get in,” she urged, and the group obeyed, all subspacing their weapons as well to fit. Stiletto squeezed in last—just barely, squashed between Oil Slick, Swindle, and Skywarp. As the door slid shut she caught the faintest hint of blue zip around the corner and streak towards them.

 _Slag—_ Shockwave hadn’t counted on _Blurr_ being here.

The turbolift shot downwards.

Blurr scraped to a stop a nanocycle too late. “Slag-slag-slag!” he cursed, and he pressed the button for the turbolift so rapidly the machinery only registered every third or fourth push. It buzzed wordless negatives at him.

Inside the turbolift, Stiletto breathed a relieved sigh, shuttering her optics momentarily.

“That could have gone better,” Strika accused. “I thought you said there would be no guards.”

“When did I say that?” Stiletto shot back. She regarded Strika coldly from under Skywarp’s arm.

Strika rumbled unhappily, but made no further remarks. For several cycles, the ride down passed silently—except, of course, for Skywarp’s whimpering.

“How are we going to get out again?” he whined.

“Flamewar and the prisoners she will be rescuing will clear the turbolift exit,” Stiletto said tersely. “And the Justice Division will keep the lower levels clear of any new arrivals. The Autobots will be no match for them all—no matter which agents they have on duty.”

The group fell silent again. Swindle huffed uncomfortably.

When the turbolift stopped and the doors opened, the Decepticons inside staggered and all but pried themselves out of the narrow space. The turbolift shut again quickly and returned to the upper level, but as slow as it was and as focused as they were on their mission, the Decepticons paid it no mind. Shockwave shifted back into his natural frame again as he strode forward to the end of the hallway, glancing into the small, empty high-security cells lining the walls as he passed. The others followed, some proudly and some nervously.

In the final cell on the left stood Megatron.

The once-mighty warlord had been stripped of his weapons. He wore no stasis cuffs—his frame swayed faintly with the strain of remaining upright in such a narrow space. For an instant, Shockwave wondered why he wouldn’t simply lean against the wall—there was barely enough room to avoid it—but then sparks danced across it and made the answer clear.

Pain was the motivator. Pain—and likely also pride. Shockwave cursed the Autobots under his breath and hurried to the keypad next to Megatron’s cell and pried the cover off.

“A moment of quiet, if you please,” the spy murmured. Ever-so-carefully, he began tracing the path of wires with his claws and comparing them to what schematics and wiring practices he knew of Autobot security systems from his days as Longarm Prime. Then he began the delicate process of shutting down the electrical net to the cell without letting it switch over to alternate power lines.

Megatron tracked him with his optics, wet his lips with his glossa, and said nothing. Soon enough, the hum of electricity running through the warlord’s cell died out, leaving only the low background noise of the prison’s main systems.

Shockwave pulled the cell door open, backed away, and sank to his knees. “My liege.”

Megatron stepped out of his cell. His legs shook slightly, but no mech dared mention it. He cast his optics around the small group of Decepticons filling the hall—Strika drew herself up quite magnificently, as did Oil Slick; Skywarp shrank back fearfully. Swindle kept flicking his optics between Megatron and Shockwave.

The gray-plated mech returned his gaze to the bot at his pedes. “Rise, Shockwave,” said Megatron. He rebooted his vocalizer to clear the static of disuse from it. “I want… to make an example of you.”

Shockwave blinked up at Megatron, then rose to his full height. “My lord Megatron, I—”

Megatron grabbed Shockwave by his expansive throat, whirled, and slammed him into the nearest wall.


	3. Late Fee

Shockwave wheezed and clawed instinctively at the hand crushing his throat. Around him, the other bots present gaped at the scene. Swindle’s optics were widened in alarm; only Strika’s firm hold on the con mech’s collar kept him from lunging forward to defend his lover.

“M-Megatron?” Shockwave gasped. His voice squeaked uncomfortably and his pedes scraped against the ground. “Why—?”

The warlord growled and squeezed Shockwave’s throat more tightly. With a final weak, breathy whine, Shockwave went silent.

“No mech abandons me,” Megatron growled. He shook the cycloptic mech once, knocking him into the wall with a loud _clang._ Shockwave’s optic flickered and unfocused. His frame weakened.

Megatron smirked. “No mech _betrays_ me. No mech that _lives.”_

“Hey, let him go!” Swindle protested. “The _whole_ time he—”

Strika clamped her hand over Swindle’s entire face. He screamed furiously into it and tried to pry it away, but she only pressed harder. “Be silent, money-grubber,” she ordered.

Megatron chuckled darkly. He slammed Shockwave into the wall again—this time hard enough to leave a sizeable crater in it. Swindle cringed at the sound. Megatron dropped Shockwave’s limp frame to the ground.

“Let the Autobots find him,” he said. “Let them lock him back away the way he left me.” He turned and gave the forces Shockwave had gathered him a wide, sadistic grin; some of them (most noticeably Skywarp) flinched or cowered in alarm. “And let us rescue the other _loyal_ Decepticons!”

“What about this one?” asked Strika. Swindle made an angry, protesting noise and tried again to pull her hand off his face.

Megatron’s grin grew crooked on one side. “Leave him with the traitor. He was never loyal to begin with.”

“With pleasure,” Strika purred. She shoved Swindle forcefully. He yelped, stumbled, and crashed to the ground atop his unconscious partner.

The turbolift pinged cheerfully.

Megatron growled his displeasure and glared at it. “General Strika,” he said, a deadly tone in his voice. “Would you care to tell me why the way back out of this Pit has not been cleared?”

“You can blame Shockwave for the shoddy strategy,” said Strika. She sounded rather disgusted with the whole affair. “I followed his foolish plan only because it was the _only_ plan, my lord.”

“I see,” said Megatron. He shifted his weight to conceal the weakness in his frame. “I don’t suppose anyone _else_ knows how to make it past these Autobot irritants?”

“I might have an idea,” said Oil Slick. He palmed a canister out of a concealed compartment in one of his forearms and tossed it casually in one hand. “They step through that door—and I’ll hit them with a can of glass gas. Easy.”

Megatron nodded, approving. “Very well,” he said. The frightening smirk on his face made Skywarp whine unhappily.

The turbolift chimed again.

As the doors slid open, Oil Slick lobbed the canister through. It burst, and with a cacophony of horrified squawks, the Autobots inside were petrified and rendered brittle.

“Allow me to clean up this mess,” Strika purred. She stepped forward and scooped the paralyzed Autobots out of the elevator. Limbs cracked off a few of them with little resistance. Then Strika threw them aside, and some shattered to pieces on the floor. Only two from the middle of the group remained mostly intact, the impact of their landing cushioned by the broken bodies of their fallen comrades. Even still, one of those lost her head.

“Good riddance,” said Megatron. He stepped into the turbolift, and the other three joined him. They crowded against each other to leave Megatron a comfortable amount of space, and the turbolift rose back toward the surface level of the prison complex again.

**‡**

A cycle or two later, Swindle moaned and came online, unconsciously rubbing his helm with one hand as he sat up. He squinted to readjust his fuzzy vision—then, as his memory core caught up with him, his optics jolted open in a panic.

Sirens were still wailing in some part of Trypticon, far above and nearly drowned out by layers of metal. Shattered limbs, brittle and glassy, were scattered across the floor. One mech in the center of the pile was starting to regain some life, but in the jumble of light-scattering glass shards the blue color was hard to pick out.

Swindle sat forward and looked around urgently. Where was—

A large, sprawled pede caught Swindle’s peripheral vision. He followed it with his optics, then uttered a surprised sound when he realized he was half on top of the mech he sought.

Swindle scrambled off of Shockwave and knelt beside him. He checked the larger mech over gently, relieved to see no signs of his frame going gray in any places it wasn’t already. He heaved a sigh, then shook Shockwave by the tread on his shoulder. “Shockwave,” he said. “Get up. We have to get out of here.”

Shockwave didn’t stir.

“Come on, Shockwave, get up,” Swindle groaned. He shook Shockwave harder, then drew a relieved vent when the cycloptic mech finally muttered some sound.

Shockwave’s struts rattled in a full-frame wheeze. He tilted his helm back to bare his intake and breathed deep, lifting one shaking hand to rub gingerly at his aching neck.

“Swindle,” he croaked, and blinked blearily at the smaller mech. “Where…?”

“Gone,” said Swindle. “Left us down here like what’s left of a bad clearance sale.”

_“Frag.”_

Swindle blinked—he’d never heard Shockwave cuss, nor say anything so vehemently.

Shockwave struggled upright without giving Swindle any more chance to react. “We have to move,” he said, and his vocalizer scraped uncomfortably on the words. He glanced aside at the glass shards strewn about the floor, blinked and took an instant to digest the information, and asked, “Are any of those mechs still functioning?”

“One is, I think,” said Swindle, pushing himself to his pedes. He stepped over and gently tugged the faintly blue frame from the pile. He was missing an arm above the elbow, but otherwise intact. “What should we do with him?”

Shockwave made no response. Swindle blinked and looked over at him. “Shockwave?”

Optic wide and staring, Shockwave said slowly, “We’ll bring him with us. He could be… useful.”

“How?” Swindle scoffed. He gave Blurr a suspicious look.

“Just in case,” said Shockwave.

Swindle shrugged, declared “If you say so,” and then pulled open his transwarp storage compartment and shoved the unconscious, glass-limbed Elite Guard agent inside.

“All right,” breathed Shockwave. “Then let’s—”

Shockwave took a step, then staggered. Swindle lunged to support him, grunting under Shockwave’s weight.

“You don’t look so good,” said Swindle.

“I’m perfectly fine—”

“You’re not,” the con mech insisted. “Transform and let me carry you.”

Shockwave fixed him with a stare, but relented. “Very well,” he said, and shifted into Stiletto. Swindle scooped her from her pedes and made for the exit.

The turbolift was miraculously empty when it reached their level. Relieved, Swindle stepped into it and pressed the button for the next level up.

Neither Swindle nor Stiletto said anything on the ride up. The turbolift stopped, and the pair grew tense—but outside the doors was nothing but empty hall and the scattered, smoking frames of a few rent-apart Autobots. The alarm continued to wail, echoing off the prison’s hard walls.

“No sign of the others,” said Swindle, squinting around. “Which way out?”

“Hang a left,” said Stiletto. “Any emergency exit toward the rear of the facility will do.”

With a nod, Swindle set off.

The hallways seemed clear, but the siren howling from every speaker made it hard for Swindle to hear his own pedesteps, let alone any approaching Autobots with their softer pedefalls. It made him nervous.

And he was right to be. As soon as he came around the next corner, he found himself face to face with a group of Autobot guards.

“Stop right there, Decepticon!” one cried. They all raised their weapons.

Swindle hastily backpedaled. In a panic, he glanced sharply into Stiletto’s optics—and the bright blue color gave him an idea.

“Don’t try anything!” he cried, and backed hastily away from the guardsmechs. “I have one of you hostage!”

Stiletto startled—but quickly played along. “Don’t worry!” she called. “I’ll be fine—just go, go to the Magnus! Don’t let Megatron get—”

As Swindle had ducked around a corner, Stiletto shut herself up as abruptly as if he’d put a hand over her mouth. She cleared her vocal synthesizer and murmured, “Excellent plan, dearest.”

“You did an all right job yourself,” Swindle laughed. He turned and ran down another hall, aiming for the emergency exit there. He kicked the door open. Another siren added its voice to the alarms blaring through the prison facility—and then they were out.

“Can you transform?” Swindle asked, tone urgent.

Stiletto nodded, so Swindle set her on her pedes. “I think so,” she said. She folded down into her treaded ATV form. Swindle followed suit, and they floored it away from the prison.

**‡**

The _Prosperity_ was exactly where they had left it.

Stiletto transformed and limped aboard first, holding her hand against the bottom of her chestplate as though in pain. Swindle frowned as he followed her into the ship.

When Stiletto reached the cabin, she shifted. Shockwave staggered and collapsed into the passenger seat. His hand lifted to rub gingerly at his throat.

“Any lasting damage?” Swindle asked. He sat in the pilot seat and furrowed his optic ridges in the larger mech’s direction.

“No,” said Shockwave. He lowered his optic shutter, hung his helm, and sighed. “No physical damage.”

Swindle heaved a deep breath through his systems, then swallowed. “What should we do?”

Shockwave looked at him. Swindle thought for a moment that he had never seen Shockwave so devoid of direction.

“I don’t know, Swindle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shockwave did mutter “scrap” once in chapter $9 of _A Shanix for Your Thoughts,_ but Swindle didn’t hear it.


	4. Dirty Money

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: SELF-MUTILATION, VOMITING, AND MENTIONS OF FORCED INVASIVE SURGERY.

Skywarp quivered in place and wrung his hands against his cockpit. He sent askance glances about the room, wings twitching on their mounts.

Surrounding the fearful clone were a multitude of Decepticons—some, those rescued from Trypticon Prison; others, their rescuers. They stood tall, proud, even the smallest of them, and Skywarp felt dwarfed and boxed in by so many dominant, confident personalities.

The worst of all of them was Megatron. _He_ was even scarier than he had been before. Skywarp hadn’t thought it was possible to be scarier than that until now.

The deepest standing tunnels beneath the city of Iacon now hosted a dangerous warlord, released from one imprisonment into another—a craving for revenge. It crackled in the air around him as he stood before a throne hastily cobbled together from what was available and spoke to the army gathered around him.

“The Autobot called Optimus Prime may have beaten me,” said Megatron, voice low, optics wide and urgent, “but he did not _kill_ me, and that was his biggest mistake. For now… now, I will be back—stronger, deadlier, and _angrier._ And every last Autobot will fall in the path of my righteous revenge.”

The Decepticons cheered. Lugnut clanged his huge clawed hands together over the din. Blitzwing, his hotheaded personality at the forefront, whooped and slapped Skywarp on the back in a gesture of violent camaraderie. Skywarp squeaked and cowered away, but in his excitement, Blitzwing didn’t notice.

“I will be remade,” Megatron cried over the throng. “I will become more powerful than any foe the Autobots have ever faced! I will become _Galvatron,_ the Unstoppable, and I will lead you to victory!”

The gathered Decepticons cheered even louder this time. This time even Tarn joined in—proud triumph reverberated from his corner of the room and echoed from the sparks of all assembled.

After a moment, however, the warlord raised a hand to quiet his army.

“But now,” the newly-christened Galvatron said, fighting to conceal a wobble in his limbs. He sat elegantly back into his makeshift throne. “I require… some time to plan our attack. You are all dismissed.”

A chorus of affirmatives met the command.

As the Decepticons began to make their way out, Galvatron searched the crowd. Then, he grinned, sharp despite his lack of fangs. “Blitzwing,” he called.

Blitzwing halted and turned, monocled gaze locked on Galvatron. “Yes, Lord—”

A hiccup of silence took the room. Blitzwing reset his vocalizer.

“…Galvatron,” he finished.

Galvatron narrowed his optics slightly and gestured with one finger. “Come here.”

Blitzwing crossed the room to stand a respectable distance from the mech on his throne. He cast a glance over his shoulder to watch as the last of the other Decepticons filed out. Lugnut shot him a squint. Blitzwing returned it with a slight nod, then turned his attention to his leader.

The gray mech shifted in his seat and smiled. “Remind me, Blitzwing,” crooned Galvatron, “who it was who gave you your third form.”

Blitzwing clicked his heels together nervously, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, and said, “It was Blackarachnia.”

“Blackarachnia,” Galvatron hummed. He lounged more deeply into his throne, smiling a deadly, cunning sort of smile. “Where is she now, hm?”

Blitzwing hesitated. “I—I do not know, Lord Galvatron,” he admitted. “I believe sometime after she deserted the Decepticons, she must have had a run-in with the Autobots on Earth.”

Galvatron growled. Blitzwing tensed—but the warlord merely bared his dentae and clenched his fists. “Then in the absence of _her_ expertise,” he said, in a low, even tone Blitzwing was quickly learning to fear, “I suppose I will simply have to use _you_ as a template.”

**‡**

As the _Prosperity_ made a tight orbit around Cybertron’s farthest moon, Shockwave paced back and forth across the cabin. Tremors came and went through his frame, sometimes so bad that Swindle, sitting several paces away in the pilot seat, could hear Shockwave’s plating rattling.

For the third time in the past ten cycles, Swindle checked the camera feed displaying in the lower left corner of the ship’s viewscreen. Blurr was locked up in an improvised holding cell of sorts in one of the supply holds. As time passed, the effects of the glass gas he had been hit with were slowly wearing off.

Slowly—but twice as fast as it would have been for any other mech, of course. The stump where his arm had shattered off was already leaking sluggishly onto the floor, though the agent himself had yet to stir.

The _Prosperity’s_ console dinged with the sound of an incoming transmission—not a communications channel, but a one-way broadcast on an encrypted Decepticon frequency.

Both Swindle and Shockwave looked sharply at the main viewscreen. Leaning forward in his seat, Swindle pushed a button on the console and allowed the transmission to come through. The viewscreen flickered—and a grainy face appeared on the screen. Megatron’s face—but different. A protective plate with slits in front of it sat in front of his mouth, affixed to an unfamiliar helm.

“Greetings, my loyal Decepticons,” he said, and Shockwave flinched as if struck. “I am Galvatron. You may have known me once as Megatron.”

The pair stared and listened as Galvatron described his plans for attack on Cybertron, riddled with tiny logical flaws. He went on to describe his twisted logic behind branding Shockwave a traitor—that Shockwave had abandoned him in Trypticon prison to be tortured by the Autobots.

Shockwave clenched his fists. “I don’t understand,” he breathed. He was visibly shaking. “I’ve never in my entire lifecycle been anything but loyal…”

Swindle frowned and laced his fingers together. “Call it a hunch, but I don’t think Galvatron’s helm is screwed on as tightly as Megatron’s was. He must’ve gotten zapped one too many times in that electrified cell of his.”

“Can’t you take this seriously?” Shockwave demanded. His voice cracked and bubbled with static.

Swindle’s optics widened. He got up and hastened to Shockwave’s side. “Hey, I’m sorry,” he said. “I—”

From the console echoed a cry of “All hail Galvatron!”

Shockwave fell to his knees, bent at the waist, and clutched at his chestplate. The claws of his other hand dug deep furrows into the floor. His whole frame was shaking—violent little tremors that, when Swindle noticed them, made the con mech rush to wrap his arms around Shockwave.

“Hey, hey,” said Swindle, trying to be soothing. “What’s wrong?”

Shockwave’s breath caught in a rasp. “Megatron—” he gasped. “No, _Galvatron.”_ He spat the name like a curse. “Megatron is no more.”

“Hey, easy,” Swindle cooed. He leaned back and put his hands on the spy’s shoulders—to ground Shockwave or to ground himself, he didn’t know. “I’m sure he’ll, uh… I don’t know. But I’m sure this will get fixed somehow—it always does!”

“It won’t this time,” the spy muttered darkly. “There was none of Megatron left in that bot. None at all.”

Then Shockwave dug his claws into his own chestplate with a horrible scraping sound.

Swindle yelped, floundered, and tried to pull Shockwave’s hand away. “Shockwave, what in sparks are you doing‽” he cried.

“Changing my allegiances.”

Shockwave wrenched his hand away sharply—it hit Swindle in the stomach and knocked the wind out of him. But the real damage the action did was to Shockwave. A gaping, ragged hole was all that was left in the center of his chestplate. His pulsing, violet spark was bared, surrounded now only by its casing and a multitude of frayed, severed wires and crumpled plates.

Shockwave crushed the metal he had torn away in his hand and dropped it to the floor. Swindle stared in horror at the crater his lover had torn into himself.

“I apologize,” gasped Shockwave, covering the hole with his shaking, fluid-covered hand. “I did not mean to hit you when I… did that.”

“Hit _me?_ Are you crazy‽” Swindle exclaimed. “Aw, Primus—Shockwave, sweetspark—lemme look at that. Why would you do that‽”

Shockwave hesitantly allowed Swindle to inspect the damage he’d done. He clutched at one of the con mech’s shoulders—Swindle flinched at the burning heat of the spilled fluids leaking off Shockwave’s claws, but let him, more focused on trying to see how badly Shockwave had injured himself.

“Why would you do that?” Swindle repeated, his tone weaker than before. He stared up into Shockwave’s optic and petted his chestplate beside the injury.

Shockwave hung his helm and shuddered. “Because,” he said, “I’m no longer a Decepticon. Or didn’t you hear?”

Swindle had not even thought Shockwave capable of crying.

All the same, he held the larger mech to his chestplate and let him take all the time he needed.

**‡**

Blitzwing’s optics cut online with a flash of red. He was still for an instant—then lunged to one side and retched onto the floor.

“What are you doing?” cried a shrill voice nearby. A series of quick, light taps made their sharp and pattering way over along a pipe affixed to the wall. Scalpel stared down at Blitzwing and tutted, crossing his arms. “I’ll have to have someone clean that up now,” he scoffed. There wasn’t an ounce of sympathy in his tone.

Blitzwing purged the rest of his fuel tank onto the floor, then slumped weakly onto his side. The berth he was lying on creaked under his weight—something he still wasn’t used to despite how long he’d had a third mode making him so heavy.

“You know, I didn’t expect the nausea,” said Scalpel. He leapt from the pipe he stood on and landed nimbly on Blitzwing’s shoulder guard, then made another jump onto the edge of the berth near Blitzwing’s face.

“I had to take apart your engines to get a good look at them,” the tiny microscope continued. He snapped his fingers in Blitzwing’s face—Blitzwing startled, and Scalpel made a pleased sound at the reaction. “Some oil must have leaked into your fuel tank. You should be fine after you’ve refueled!”

Blitzwing sat halfway up, his face switching in a whirl to his red one, and shot Scalpel a queasy glare. “What did you do to me, you meddling insect‽” he demanded.

“Well, Lord Gavatron wanted to be a triple-changer,” Scalpel said. He scuttled along the edge of the berth and leapt nimbly over Blitzwing’s knee where it protruded over the edge and in his way. “You’re the only other triple-changer around, so I took you apart to use for patterns!” He clapped his hands together and whirled in a flurry of swift, spidery limbs to face Blitzwing again. “Messy business, but I only had a few extra pieces when I put you back together again—nothing important!”

Blitzwing groaned. So _that_ was what happened?

What could possess Galvatron to desire something like that? Didn’t he know how Blitzwing struggled with his own fractured psyche, caused by the very process—and it was a _flawed_ process—that Blackarachnia had used to give Blitzwing his unique capabilities?

They weren’t even so unique anymore, apparently.

Blitzwing pushed aside the thoughts for later, tuned out Scalpel’s further prattling, and slung himself off the berth. He needed to refuel, _now,_ so he fled the fluid-streaked room—a far cry from a real med bay—and stumbled into the hallway. He took a moment to calm his systems—in his woozy state, the switching of his faces gave him a processor ache. He groaned and put a hand to his helm, then pushed off the wall and staggered down the hall.

With his fuel levels as stunningly low as they were, he didn’t make it far before he had to stop. Blitzwing took a moment to lean against the wall by some doorway to catch his breath. The sounds of a potential argument came from inside—typical Decepticon infighting, it sounded like.

“If Cyclonus hadn’t gone missing and left me a bot short, I’d challenge you _Justice Division_ to a good old-fashioned brawl in a spark pulse,” Strika growled, slamming one fist into her opposite palm.

“It still wouldn’t be a fair fight,” Tarn replied, as smoothly as ever.

Blitzwing moved on swiftly, not interested in putting off his systems even further by listening to Tarn’s unsettling vocal tones. He struggled as quickly as he could to the crude mess hall that had been set up.

Despite trying to put it out of his processor, the question of _why_ Galvatron had decided on becoming a triple-changer gnawed at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t tag violence as a trigger, but this is Other Stuff, so I’m just being safe. (Anyway, Blitzwing is definitely not a mere comic relief character in this fic.)
> 
> I made a meta post about the reasoning behind Shockwave’s emotional struggles [here](http://aboard-the-prosperity.tumblr.com/post/151791131710/author-post-more-will-be-given-on-this-in-story), on the story's Tumblr.


	5. Take a Gamble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing but I got whacked in the face by anxiety today due to my own impulsive fucking up and I needed to foist some emotional baggage off on someone else. Blitzwing and Blurr got the brunt of it in this chapter. (I hope no one is terribly out of character... it's been A Day)
> 
> WARNING: VOMITING.

Blurr clutched the dripping stump of his arm against his side and rocked.

The agent’s calves and pedes were still numb and disturbingly translucent with the lingering effects of the glass gas Oil Slick hit him with. He couldn’t risk putting his full weight on them, no matter how light his speedy, aerodynamic frame might be.

It wasn’t like he could move that much in this tiny cell anyway.

Blurr shuddered and curled more tightly into himself. He was dizzy and scared, due to both his injury and his captivity. Where was he? What happened to him? What happened to all the _other_ bots he’d come down that turbolift with?

Blurr pulled a deep vent through his systems and stilled. He squinted around him at his surroundings, outside the cell—which seemed to be a repurposed mechanimal trap of some sort. There were shelves upon shelves of devices surrounding his cage, and no small amount of those devices were illegal weapons. Around him, just audible over the nervous panting of his vents, rumbled a powerful engine. A ship’s engine—and the low whine present in it meant it was probably merchant class.

Well, that made Blurr’s location a little more obvious. He was on the vessel of some sort of arms dealer—and considering who he had glimpsed in the turbolift back in Trypticon prison, the ship probably belonged to (or was _stolen_ by, more likely) none other than Swindle.

Blurr grimaced. What could a mech like Swindle possibly want with him?

**‡**

“No! _No!_ Don’t make me go in there!”

Skywarp’s fearful sobbing carried over the sounds of other Decepticons laughing at his misfortune. He thrashed and kicked, but was held firm in the grip of the stronger bots dragging him along.

“Do not disobey the commands of the mighty Galvatron!” Lugnut bellowed. He cocked his fist back—and slammed it straight into Skywarp’s chestplate. Motormaster let go as the hit connected and, with a pained squawk, Skywarp careened backwards and landed on his back in Scalpel’s operating room.

“Have fun playing with the mad doctor,” mocked Motormaster.

“Don’t just stand there talking—strap him down, strap him down!” Scalpel jumped in place and beat his tiny fists against the air. His spectacles wobbled in place on the thin olfactory ridge decorating his face.

Skywarp squealed and tried to scramble back out of the room, but Lugnut charged in and slammed him to the ground. He wrestled the wailing clone onto the crude medical berth. Motormaster leapt in and wrapped the straps around Skywarp’s limbs. When the two backed away, Skywarp was trussed up so that he could do no more than squirm and jabber pleas to be released.

“Excellent work.”

Lugnut and Motormaster turned, nearly synchronized. “Thank you, lord Galvatron,” said Lugnut, with all his usual deference. “Anything for such a great and _glorious_ leader—”

Galvatron’s optic twitched. “Shut _up,_ Lugnut.”

Lugnut stalled. His jaw dropped, then clicked shut again. His main optic cycled in a sort of stunned confusion. Motormaster snickered quietly, a low, dark sound that made Skywarp whine even louder.

Ignoring his heftier subordinates for the moment, Galvatron turned his gaze to Scalpel. “Will this be enough to keep you… _occupied,_ doctor?” he murmured. He shifted his weight, unused to the new bulk of his triplechanger form and the weight it put on his joints, still a little unsteady sometimes from his time in Trypticon Prison.

Scalpel nodded enthusiastically and scuttled up alongside Skywarp’s leg. He poked the Seeker in the hip and said, “Oh, yes. Most definitely.” He cocked his head and adjusted his spectacles. “I think I’ll start with the thrusters, hm? Lots of potential there…”

Towards the edge of the group, Blitzwing turned and made his exit. The cold planes of his face tugged downwards in a sort of anxious scowl.

Galvatron had been acting… out of character. Even as blindsided as he could be by the frequent and chaotic disruption of his own processor that his multiple facets caused, Blitzwing could tell. The sudden desire to become a triplechanger despite the known risks, when he had before been perfectly content with just a helicopter mode… The careless exploit of one of his own bots, sending Skywarp to be the subject of Scalpel’s unpredictable experiments…

And the way he spoke now. Megatron had always possessed a tone of danger about his words, but the threat in the warlord’s voice had never felt so imminent.

Blitzwing stopped, leaned his shoulder against the nearest wall, and groaned. He pressed one hand against his cockpit and the other over his mouth. His nausea had gone down after he’d refilled his tank, yes, but it had come back, and he was getting slowly queasier by the megacycle. This pressing nervousness about Galvatron’s new unpredictability likely wasn’t helping, but Blitzwing suspected it had something more to do with whatever Scalpel had done to him while mucking about in his internals.

If he weren’t so distrustful of the little freak, Blitzwing might go back and ask him to have a look—fix whatever he might have broken. As it stood, though, Blitzwing thought it best he just wait it out and see if it cleared itself up.

**‡**

“I still don’t know what you want Blurr around for,” said Swindle. He glanced at the security feed in the _Prosperity’s_ viewscreen corner—Blurr was pinching shut the exposed tubing of his damaged arm to staunch the flow of leaking hydraulic fluid, oil, and energon.

Stiletto, who had curled up in Swindle’s lap, picked at the torn edges of white plating tucked under the bottom plane of her chestplate. Shifting covered her spark in a way that kept it properly safe, so Swindle had insisted she remain in this form until they found a medic to repair her.

“…He could be useful to us,” she murmured. “He’s a veteran member of Cybertronian Intelligence. If nothing else, he can be used to bribe the Guard for our freedom if we’re caught.”

Swindle hummed thoughtfully. “That is something,” he said. “So, what’s the other reason?”

Stiletto hesitated—then sighed. “At one point, I attempted to have him crushed and thereby permanently offlined,” she said, and gave Swindle a dark look. “I succeeded in reducing him to a mere cube of metal. And yet, he shows no lingering signs of that damage. I want to know how he survived.”

The con mech let out a low whistle. “So it’s personal, then,” he said.

Stiletto turned her head away. “You could say that.”

“Well, that’ll have to wait until we can get you fixed,” said Swindle. He frowned. “We can’t risk landing back on Cybertron—not with Galvatron calling you a traitor. But Lockdown is still out there somewhere.”

Stiletto shook her helm. “We’ll have to risk it,” she said. “We can’t stay here, either—we’re lucky we haven’t already been shot out of Luna II’s orbit. Lockdown is an easier foe to face than the entire Elite Guard.”

“If you say so,” said Swindle, sounding unsure. All the same, he reached over Stiletto with one hand and fired up the _Prosperity’s_ main thrusters to break out of the moon’s orbit. “Where to?”

Stiletto lifted a hand to touch the gash in her cheek, looking thoughtful.

“I think,” she said, “we should try Velocitron.”

**‡**

Blitzwing curled up and groaned, holding his midsection with both hands. He glanced into the slick puddle of energon spilled around his knees, very nearly retched again at the sight of his distorted reflection, and turned his helm away.

There was oil in the fuel he’d purged.

Just like the last time.

There was a leak. A leak inside of him, oil dripping from his tank engine into his fuel tank. At the rate he was losing it, he was at risk of his engine seizing and leaving him with only his turbines. But even worse than that—if this nausea kept up, what was Blitzwing but a waste of energon? Galvatron was a triplechanger now, so what did he need Blitzwing for?

Blitzwing staggered upright and blew out a frustrated growl. _No,_ he thought; he’d get over this. It would be fine. He didn’t last this long in the war to be taken out by a stupid hole in his stupid internals.

It wasn’t so bad. He could last until his self-repair took care of it. If it got bad enough, he could still go to Scalpel. A few death threats went a long way towards getting adequate medical treatment.

And if he couldn’t keep down liquid fuel right now, well… Blitzwing cast an optic towards the corner he’d hidden himself around. Certain Decepticons had a few extra parts they might not need so badly. A spare arm or two at most—nothing anyone would _miss._

**‡**

The ship lurched as it left the moon’s orbit, then again as it shot away from Cybertron and up to full speed. Blurr muttered a string of obscenities and picked himself up off the floor. He grimaced at the smear of fluids left on the scuffed metal surface.

“It’s-fine,it’s-not-so-bad,” he told himself. “Leaving-Cybertron?Hah!You’ll-have-to-do-more-than-that-to-keep-a-special-agent-of-the-Elite-Guard-from-doing-his-job!I-just-have-to-get- _out-_ of- _here—hrnngh—!”_

As he rambled under his breath, Blurr glanced himself over to confirm that the glass gas had truly worn off, then curled up and braced his shoulders and pedes against opposite walls of the mechanimal cage he was trapped in. Then he pushed, _hard,_ the powerful hydraulics in his legs straining, and managed to dent the metal on either side. He collapsed back against the floor, breathing hard.

“Great-now-just-one-more-time,” Blurr panted, and he kicked out at the bars at his pedes. He was made to take the impact of high-speed running, but not made for _kicking,_ and it stung all the way up to his hip. Blurr gritted his dentae, clutched the stump of his arm in his one remaining hand to distract himself with _other_ pain, and kicked again.

One of the bars shattered.

“Yes!” Blurr cried, and one more kick broke enough bars that he was able to twist around and squeeze out of the cage.

Just as Blurr rose to his pedes, exhausted and triumphant, the door to the storage hold slid open. Blurr froze; he stared with wide optics at the femme standing there. For an instant, neither moved.

The femme glanced at the hole in the bars, then back at Blurr. “Clever bot,” she murmured.

Something about her voice and the narrowing of her optics rubbed Blurr entirely the wrong way, and he tensed defensively.

The larger bot seemed unaware. “I’m afraid that won’t help you,” she said. “As quick as you are, there’s nothing you can do to get off this ship.”

Blurr leaned his weight back slightly in preparation to run. But where? The door was blocked, and this femme didn’t look like she was about to move for him. He looked around the storage hold frantically, but there was no way out that he could see and none of the weapons stacked up on the shelves would be any use to him with one arm gone.

_Trapped._ Blurr’s spark squeezed tight and he fought for the air to cool his systems. Desperately, he seized on the one clue he had that this situation might not be as bad as it seemed: bright, Autobot-blue optics. No Decepticon in the universe had optics that color—save Longarm Prime, of course. But Blurr was quick to shut that thought down.

“I-can’t-imagine-why-you’re-threatening-me-when-you-look-so-much-like-an-Autobot.”

The femme’s lips twitched. “I’m no Autobot,” she said, and she turned her face away. “And no Decepticon.”

For an instant, Blurr just gaped. Then he snapped his jaw shut with a click. “Then-what-do-you-want-with- _me?”_ he demanded.

Slowly, the femme lifted her optics to Blurr’s face. She seemed thoughtful, just for an instant, then told him:

“I want your help.”


	6. Debt Collector

“I want your help,” said Stiletto.

“So you put me in a mechanimal cage‽” Blurr huffed. He put his hand on his hip. The stump of his other arm hung limp at his side. “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t believe that’s entirely convincing—after all, being thrown into a cage is something usually reserved for prisoners, as I’m sure you well know considering you were among the group who broke Megatron out of Trypticon prison—”

“Quiet,” Stiletto barked.

Blurr tripped over his glossa with an indignant sort of squawk.

Stiletto clenched her jaw and wished for a moment that she hadn’t gotten into such a habit of displaying emotion facially whilst presenting as Longarm Prime. “Yes, I… was _involved_ with his escape,” she said. “But I’ve realized that it was a mistake to release the mech now calling himself Galvatron. Now…”

Stiletto’s optics flashed with something steely and vengeful. The gem on her chest almost— _almost_ —seemed to glint the same way… but it had to be the light shifting when she did. “Now I want to put him back in.”

Blurr snorted. “Capturing all those Decepticons was difficult enough the first time,” he said. _“Not_ that the Elite Guard are shirkers of course, but the sheer number of Decepticons who are now back on the loose has set us back by whole stellar cycles! I doubt _you_ have much chance at _putting him back.”_

Stiletto seemed to consider this. For an instant, Blurr thought he must have lost her—other bots never _could_ keep up with his swift speech—but then she shrugged.

She’d gotten enough of it to put the pieces together. Stellar cycles of practice picking out the important bits of Blurr’s rapid-fire chatter certainly helped.

“Then I’ll simply have to kill him,” she decided.

Blurr spluttered and shifted in place, suddenly antsy. _“Well,_ for someone who claims not to be a Decepticon, that’s a very Decepticon sort of thing to say if you don’t mind me saying so!”

“Not at all,” Stiletto murmured—and what was _that_ supposed to mean?—then stepped back slightly and leaned around the doorframe. “Swindle,” she called, “I don’t think we’ll have to worry about Blurr becoming a problem.”

Well, that confirmed Blurr’s suspicions about where he was, anyway.

“Good,” Swindle yelled back. “We have bigger things to worry about. Get up here.”

Stiletto frowned, glanced at Blurr, and said, “Don’t do anything reckless.” Then she strode to the front of the ship in long, slightly limping strides.

Blurr hesitated, then zipped to the doorway and leaned out of it to peer after her.

Stiletto stepped onto the bridge and slowed, staring at the mech on the viewscreen. He smirked and tapped his fingers against his console.

“Well, well, well. Look who it is,” said Lockdown. He glanced over Stiletto’s frame. “Damage keeping you down, huh?”

“You don’t look so well off yourself, Lockdown,” said Swindle. He did his best to sound calm and unbothered, but no one was really fooled. “What’s this about? You’re not really going to try and get a one-up on us when you’re still recovering from all your injuries—”

“Speak for yourself, Swindle,” Lockdown growled. “I want my bounty, I want back the Shanix you stole from me, I want your mods—and I want them _now._ I’m boarding your ship.”

The display blinked out.

The _Prosperity_ lurched. Stiletto tumbled into Swindle’s lap with a yelp and a pained gasp—Blurr landed on his face in the hallway and squawked.

“Slag,” hissed Swindle. He helped Stiletto up and stood, then made his way off the _Prosperity’s_ bridge. “Might be a good idea to get out of the way, Blurr,” he said, as he passed the blue mech picking himself off the floor. Calling over his shoulder now, the con mech explained, “You wouldn’t want to lose another limb, would you? I don’t think you could afford a replacement.”

“What are you planning, Swindle?” Stiletto staggered her way to the doorway of the bridge and leaned on it, pressing her other hand against the bottom of her chestplate. A thin trail of blackish fluid leaked sluggishly from between her fingers.

Swindle stopped, turned, and offered her a weak smile. “You’re not in any state to take on Lockdown right now,” he said. “I can handle him.”

Stiletto frowned. “Are you sure about that?” she asked, and she pushed off the wall to stand, somewhat unsteadily, on her own. “Lockdown is dangerous, even while injured. You’re not—”

A scraping sound interrupted her. Swindle jumped—he turned just in time to see the _Prosperity’s_ landing hatch being pried open from the top. A familiar hook bit a sharp dent into the top edge.

“Just get in the storage hold,” Swindle hissed at Stiletto. He grabbed his scattergun from his transwarp storage compartment and mounted it to his arm, then aimed for where Lockdown should be.

Grimacing, Stiletto ducked into the storage hold as directed and shut the door. She input the lock code, smearing leaked oil on the keypad, then slumped against the door.

Blurr stared at her from across the room. For a moment, neither said anything. Then Stiletto sighed.

“This isn’t going to go well,” she said. She shut her optics and leaned her helm between the treads mounted on her back.

“Don’t drag me into this,” Blurr huffed. “It wasn’t my idea to get involved with a Decepticon and—and whatever _you_ are.”

“Would you quit bringing that up?” Stiletto snapped. “It doesn’t matter. This isn’t about faction.”

Blurr snorted and turned his head away. In his experience, things usually were—but he didn’t want to waste his energy arguing with a femme he’d barely even met. Not when he was already so drained.

**‡**

With a mighty heave, Lockdown wrenched the _Prosperity’s_ entrance hatch open. He stepped aside to let it crash to the floor beside him, then shot a smirk at Swindle over the spike decorating his shoulder.

“Put the gun down and go easy, Swindle,” he said coolly, and he stepped out into the doorway and held up his hand and hook in a false gesture of goodwill. “I’ll even play nice when I rip that handy storage compartment out of your chest.”

“Not gonna happen, Lockdown,” said Swindle. He leveled his scattergun directly at Lockdown’s spark. “Get off my ship.”

“What, _this_ ship? The ship you stole?” Lockdown grinned. “Well, I suppose the one thing we always did agree on was that possession is nine tenths ownership.”

“Then you agree the money I took is mine now, hm?” Swindle ventured. “Come on now, Lockdown. You’re in no shape to be taking anything back from anyone.”

Lockdown smirked. “Nice try.”

The bounty hunter leapt forward. Swindle cussed and stumbled back a step or two. He tracked Lockdown with his scattergun, fired—but missed. In the instant it took Swindle to realize his blunder, Lockdown brought up his forearm and smacked the weapon clean off Swindle’s arm.

 “Sorry, Swindle. It’s been nice doin’ business with ya,” said Lockdown. With a wicked grin, he revealed a plasma cannon in his forearm and blasted Swindle straight in the gut at point blank.

Swindle hit the floor.

Lockdown exhaled and straightened. He retracted the plasma cannon and placed his hand gently against his aching middle, feeling for any reopened wounds. When none of his probing made anything worse, he pulled a vent through his systems. Then he grabbed Swindle by the ankle and dragged him onto the _Death’s Head._ A trail of fluids streaked behind him.

“One down,” said Lockdown, and he turned to look back into the _Prosperity._ “One to go.”

He stepped forward.

Ahead of him, Stiletto exited the storage hangar she’d been hidden in. The door shut behind her. She glared wordlessly at Lockdown and clenched her fists. The blades on her forearms sprung forward with the sharp _shkt_ of metal on metal.

“There you are,” Lockdown drawled. “Aw, are you upset that I was too much for your dearest Swindle to handle?”

“Combat doesn’t seem to be his strong suit,” said Stiletto. “I doubt you’ll have the same lead against me.”

“Big talk for a bot who can barely stand,” mocked Lockdown. “But all right then. Come at me.”

Stiletto tried. Lockdown really had to give her that. But she was all to easy to throw over Lockdown’s shoulder. She landed hard on her front on the other side of the bridge between the two ships, and Lockdown turned and shook his head at her.

“Pathetic,” he said. She groaned; Lockdown walked over as casually as could be, grabbed a pair of stasis cuffs from a nearby shelf, and kicked Stiletto over onto her back. He snapped the cuffs on around the purple bot’s wrists. Then he stood upright again and pressed his heel down hard on Stiletto’s midsection. “And stay down, you slippery glitch.”

“It’s _Stiletto,”_ the purple bot hissed. Lockdown kicked her in the chestplate. She wheezed.

“The thing is, I don’t really _care_ what you’re calling yourself,” the bounty hunter drawled. “It’s not going to matter anymore once I’ve taken you apart.” He smirked, then made for the _Prosperity_ again. “But I think I’m going to take a few choice items from Swindle first. Really add insult to injury—make it _fair.”_

Stiletto coughed and weakly tried to protest through her swimming processor. “You can’t just—”

Lockdown waved his hook dismissively. “Tell it to someone who gives a slag.”

The bounty hunter strode down the hallway like he owned the ship himself and went first for the storage hold Stiletto had occupied. The door was locked—but Lockdown merely smirked and used his plasma cannon to shoot out the latch. It slid open, and—

 _Well, well._ He’d come faceplate to faceplate with the famously zippy little elite guard agent. What an addition to his collection _this_ would be.

“Would you look at that,” Lockdown purred, looming over Blurr. “An unexpected bonus.”

Blurr clenched his jaw and feinted left—Lockdown lunged to catch him. But the speedster flung his right arm out, overbalanced, and used the momentum to propel himself out of Lockdown’s clutches and scramble into the ship’s hallway. He streaked out of sight immediately with a cry of, “Not going to happen!”

“Get back here, you mangy scraplet!” Lockdown snarled. He narrowed his optics, picked himself up, and leaned out the doorway, then looked both ways down the hallway. “Speedy little bugger…”

Blurr skidded to a stop inside the _Death’s Head,_ processor working at nigh on the speed of light. Lockdown would kill, or at the very least maim and cripple him for certain—Swindle’s femme companion had said they wanted his help. If Blurr wanted out of this he had to side with them.

He streaked to Stiletto’s side and shook her by the shoulder. He’d rather deal with this unknown not-Decepticon than Swindle.

“Hey,” Blurr said urgently. “You, whatever your name is, stop lying here like you’re offline and get up.”

Stiletto did nothing more than groan weakly at him. Swindle gave even less response, when Blurr tried vainly to rouse him instead.

_Great. Just great._

Blurr gritted his dentae and thanked Primus that he’d lost his left arm, not his right, because he’d have to fight his way out of this one with no backup—not even the Decepticon kind.

When Lockdown figured out where the Elite Guard agent had gone, Blurr was waiting for him—standing over Swindle and Stiletto’s downed frames with his energon saw held protectively in front of his chestplate to guard his spark. The shield mounted at its base glinted with the characteristic sheen of an energy-resistant finish.

“I’m not particularly interested in losing either my life or any parts of my frame to some patchwork bounty hunter today or any other day,” he declared. “And I’m not above defending myself!”

“Oh yeah?” Lockdown scoffed. He narrowed his optics. As if Blurr was any match for him, even injured. And this pipsqueak had the gall to insult him? _Hah._

Lockdown smirked and brandished his hook. “Let’s dance, tiny.”


	7. Money for Nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everything but the end Blitzwing scene in this chapter was completely BS'd  
> enjoy

Lockdown lay unconscious on the floor. His plating was marred with viciously singed gashes, all torn out and cauterized by Blurr’s energon saw in the span of a few seconds. The bounty hunter had simply been no match for Blurr’s blinding speed.

Blurr—who had put Lockdown out of his processor for the moment once he was dealt with—cursed and tried for the umpteenth to get Stiletto’s cuffs open. “If I just had both hands this would be so much easier,” he groused. He flubbed the latch again and groaned. “But _no,_ I had to have a run-in with Oil Slick’s glass gas…”

“Don’t bother,” Stiletto interrupted. She still seemed a bit pain-woozy, but was regaining her coherency. “Just… give me space. I can get out of these.”

“What?” Blurr blinked, sitting back in surprise. “No one can just get out of stasis cuffs on their own. That’s impossible—they _completely_ paralyze all a bot’s motor systems!”

“I know, but it’s my special ability,” said Stiletto—and it wasn’t _entirely_ a lie. Shockwave’s electrical abilities _were_ her way out of stasis cuffs. “Let me focus.”

Blurr looked unsure, but he did nod.

Stiletto took a breath, disregarded whatever acknowledgement was coming out of Blurr’s mouth, and shut her optics. It was hard to focus on the electrical rhythm of the stasis cuffs through the pain running rampant through her systems. She bit her lip and did her best to tune out the throbbing in her dented chestplate, the ache of her still-healing knee.

The pattern finally emerged, and as quickly as she could, Stiletto forced the energy out through her blades—Shockwave’s talons—and fried the stasis cuffs’ circuitry.

The cuffs dropped off her wrists. She sagged against the floor and vented hard to cool back down.

“That’s incredible,” said Blurr, sounding genuinely impressed. He was quick to move on, however—so he must not be _that_ impressed. “But as convenient as that ability is it won’t keep Lockdown from waking up and putting those cuffs right back on you, so I _suggest_ you get up and help me move Swindle back to the other ship—he’s completely nonresponsive and leaking everywhere, I think Lockdown must have shot him and severed an important fuel line—”

“Scrap,” Stiletto hissed, and she forced herself up. She bent forward too sharply and split open the gashed wound in her lower chest plating, but shrugged off the pain and crawled to Swindle’s side. “Swindle? Dearest, please.”

“I _just_ told you he’s nonresponsive,” Blurr harped, joining Stiletto beside Swindle’s prone frame.

Stiletto huffed at him. “I can _try,_ can’t I?” she said, then shuffled a bit closer to Swindle. She looped her arms under the con mech’s back and knees and gently lifted him against her chest, careful to move him as little as possible, then staggered to her pedes. She cast her optics down the path back onto the _Prosperity_ and grimaced. “Get Lockdown out of my way.”

Blurr opened his mouth to complain, then took a second glance at Stiletto’s unsteady frame and thought better of it. He rushed to drag Lockdown out of the way. He grabbed the bounty hunter by the hook and put his legs into it—really strained to move him—and managed to get him just far enough out of the way for Stiletto to get through. Breathing heavily afterwards, Blurr stepped lightly after her.

Stiletto limped her way to the door Swindle’s quarters. She shifted the mech in her arms just slightly, but couldn’t reach the keypad without jostling him. With a huff, she stepped back. “The code is five-four-six-one-seven,” she said, and she looked at Blurr.

“Right, on it,” said the speedster. He ducked in between Stiletto and the keypad, typed the code, and then slipped back out of the way as the door slid open. “Now, I don’t want to give the impression that I care about the safety of a Decepticon for any _altruistic_ reasons, but considering the fact that I have no way back to Cybertron at the moment—I _could_ of course run my way there if only I had something solid enough to launch myself off of and wasn’t so low on energy, but unfortunately that seems to be wishful thinking at the moment—well, do you think he’ll be all right? Can you fly this ship or are we stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, empty space?”

“Swindle will be fine after a medic sees to him, and I can fly the _Prosperity_ perfectly well,” said Stiletto. She’d made it to the side of Swindle’s berth, and gently laid him on it. She caressed his cheek gently, then stood and said grimly, “But I have one more thing to do first.”

Blurr nodded and scuttled back a few steps, leaving the doorway clear for Stiletto to pass through it. “Right then, I’ll just wait up front if that’s all right with you—whatever you’re doing, I’m sure you don’t need my help to do it.”

Stiletto watched Blurr streak back towards the _Prosperity’s_ cockpit and turned towards the _Death’s Head._ She limped her way onto the other ship, then made her way to its main console. With a sneer, she extended her blades. She jabbed them into the _Death’s Head’s_ navigational computer. It threw a shower of sparks.

“Just try and follow us this time,” said Stiletto, and she glared at Lockdown’s unconscious form for a moment before returning to the _Prosperity._

**‡**

A diet of cannibalism could only sustain a bot for so long.

Cybertronian systems needed energon. Energon that Blitzwing had been unable to keep down for multiple solar cycles. Multiple solar cycles that he spent _miserable,_ dizzy and running on empty, listening to Galvatron shouting his new plans for the fate of Cybertron.

Plans that were bordering on ridiculous—even to Blitzwing.

Maybe Megatron had been headed this way since his repair by Isaac Sumdac and Blitzwing just hadn’t been able to see it until being trapped in this awful state kept his mental state uncomfortably level. Maybe it was something new, something wholly Galvatron. But whenever this had set in, Blitzwing didn’t like it. As much as he enjoyed a bit of carnage, he wasn’t nearly so interested in slaughtering every last Cybertronian who wouldn’t bow to Galvatron’s authority.

He was beginning to become bitter—couldn’t show the same enthusiasm at the prospect of taking back Cybertron. If it wasn’t really going to be _Cybertron…_

Blitzwing gingerly took a small sip of energon and tried not to think about it.

**‡**

Any other time at all, Blurr would have been elated to return to Velocitron. The whole planet was virtually made for him; its denizens _worshipped_ the speedy, dedicated their lives to velocity and adrenaline, the rush of the race. If Blurr weren’t so dedicated to his job as an intelligence agent, he would love to make it here as a racer.

As it stood, it was more of a vacation spot than anything.

Or it would be, if Blurr weren’t walking through the early morning dark alongside a Decepticon criminal—and another bot of questionable allegiance.

Stiletto did her best to support Swindle as they walked, keeping one arm around him. He leaned into her and pressed a hand against his stomach. They talked quietly—little whispered words that Blurr tried not to pay attention to, but kept picking up anyway because of his intel training.

“—shouldn’t have tried to fight him, you’re not—”

“—you were injured, I couldn’t just let Lockdown—”

“—another strategy. It was fortunate Blurr was there—”

Blurr blew a lengthy exhale through his vents. “How much longer until we get to this medic you mentioned?” he asked. He made to cross his arms, faltered, then huffed and put his sole remaining hand on his hip instead. “I couldn’t help noticing that the horizon is starting to lighten, so if you want to get to this place before the racers and their audiences start milling around _you_ two had better move a little bit _faster.”_

“It’s not that far, Blurr,” said Stiletto. She sounded tired. “It’s that green building up ahead.”

Swindle gave a wry sort of smirk. “Feel free to run ahead and announce us.”

Blurr heaved a relieved sigh—this slow pace was _murder_ —and streaked off. He skidded to a stop in front of the door, tottered a little, and glanced over his shoulder. Swindle and Stiletto would be another few minutes, he guessed, based on their current speed. The speedster rolled his optics, then knocked rapidly on the door.

A moment passed with no response. Blurr had just lifted his hand to knock again when the door opened.

Knock Out blinked, then looked quickly between Blurr’s severed arm and his face. “How in AllSpark’s sakes did you manage _that?”_ he scoffed, and stepped out of the doorway. “Primus—get inside.”

“Yes, thank you, don’t mind if I do,” said Blurr. Knock Out blinked again, just as startled by the rapidity of Blurr’s speech as his missing arm. “I have two—well, I suppose I should call them acquaintances, maybe temporary allies, headed this way more slowly as well. I think Stiletto said something about her knee slowing her down.”

“Wait, wait a moment— _Stiletto?”_ Knock Out echoed, optic ridges arched high. He faltered, looking conflicted, then huffed and grabbed a couple of crutches that were hanging by the doorway. “Go sit on a berth,” he said, slipping past Blurr and through the door. He looked over at Stiletto and Swindle—the latter grinned sheepishly and offered a weak wave. Knock Out pressed his lips together. “I’ll be right back.”

**‡**

Galvatron had given another speech. This one seemed a little more like the old Megatron. Blitzwing dared to hope that perhaps the oddities before were only a result of Galvatron’s weakness in the wake of his imprisonment and modification into a triple-changer. Then it would make some sense of why he wasn’t moving to enact any of his plans yet, as well.

As the Decepticons filed out to return to whatever duties they had been assigned, Blitzwing found himself caught at the back of the line, still moving sluggishly in his under-energized state. Galvatron strolled past him, then stalled and took a step back. He stared at Blitzwing—the other triple-changer’s wings twitched uncomfortably.

“My lord,” he said softly, hoping to deflect any further scrutiny with respect.

Galvatron just continued to _look_ at him. Something in that gaze was utterly unnerving.

“Ah, Blitzwing. Good,” said Galvatron, as though he had somehow just now realized who he was staring at. “I had a thought you might find… just a little bit interesting.”

Control was not on Blitzwing’s side (not that it ever was). He got excited. “Ooh, ooh,” he cried, and he clasped his hands together. “What is it? Is it fun?”

Galvatron eyed Blitzwing suspiciously. “You remind me,” he said softly, and then he paused. Blitzwing stood poised on reaction. His wings quivered with suspense.

Only then did Galvatron continue: “…of Shockwave.”

Blitzwing’s reaction was instantaneous. He couldn’t help it. His face switched with a whir, his frame tensed, and he started yelling.

“How dare you! I am nothing like that cycloptic freak!”

Another sharp shift threw Blitzwing’s emotional momentum back in the other direction again. “Oh, oh!” he cried, manic grin stretching wide. “Except for being a freak!” And then he devolved into giggles.

Galvatron growled and lunged.

Blitzwing squawked, finding his throat squeezed between two massive hands. His giggles died in a breathless, fearful sobbing, optics wide, but the terror in them was erased with his face when it changed. “Let go of me!” he tried to roar. It came out in a scraping wheeze. He kicked out and tried futilely to shove Galvatron away, but the other triple-changer was too strong.

Galvatron only grinned wickedly. “Remember,” he purred, squeezing more tightly. Blitzwing’s face whirled back to neutrality—no, _fear—_ and he struggled to pull air into his vents. His processor fogged from lack of energon, already low-pressure fuel lines blocked every bit as thoroughly.

Galvatron’s grin widened.

“Remember what happened to that traitor, Blitzwing,” he whispered. “I can’t trust a mech like him. And you look so much like him, with all your purple and your shape and that black face of yours—and with _this_ face, you act the very same. Can I trust _you,_ Blitzwing?”

The warlord squeezed even more tightly. Blitzwing’s vision swam. He struggled to push sound through his vocalizer, but dropped into unconsciousness and fell limp instead.

Galvatron glared at the ragdoll of a mech Blitzwing had become. “Pitiful,” he said, and flung him aside before stalking away to some other corner of the hideaway.


	8. Acceptable Losses

“Good as new,” Knock Out declared. He pulled his hands away from Blurr’s arm—the agent flexed his repaired limb a couple of times. Knock Out smirked faintly. “You just let me know if that acts up.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Blurr told him, and he hopped off the medical berth and rolled his shoulder. “Fine in this case meaning ‘acceptable’, as it’s unlikely even the best surgeon in this sector could ever restore my frame to its _precise_ original capabilities. But I would rather have all the pieces of my frame intact, especially if I intend to transform—and I _do_ intend to transform, quite frequently in fact, just like _any_ self-respecting bot. _So!_ The replacement will have to do.”

Knock Out’s smirk pressed into a flat line. “I caught just enough of that to feel offended,” he snarked. “I happen to be _quite_ good at my job, thank you. Your arm will work perfectly.”

Blurr huffed, crossed his arms, and briefly reveled in his newly restored ability to do so. “You’re a back-street, unofficial hack medic on Velocitron, not even registered, without a sterile operating facility or any additional staff. I would be surprised if my arm doesn’t fall right off again due to an _unfortunate_ rust infection before I even get back to Cybertron!”

Knock Out looked at the ceiling as though it might grant him patience. “Well, don’t come screaming to me about it if it does,” he said, and he left Blurr’s room.

Blurr scowled after him. He’d have left, but…

The speedster scowled at the chains looped through the gaps in his tires, too. _Swindle’s_ idea.

**‡**

“You were reckless,” Stiletto admonished. “You endangered yourself needlessly.”

 “And you didn’t?” Frowning, Swindle let his hand fall off the side of the berth, then reached over to catch Stiletto’s. Her entire hand fit easily in his palm. She didn’t withdraw her hand, so he squeezed it gently. “You were already hurt, and you _still_ went after Lockdown after he put me down? I really hate to say it, you know, but if _Blurr_ hadn’t been there…”

“I might be offline,” Stiletto said flatly. “In pieces, torn up on Lockdown’s operating table for him to take a mod from me that doesn’t exist.”

Swindle cringed. Then he winced and sucked in a sharp vent when the movement strained the healing welds on his abdominals.

Stiletto frowned, then turned her hand over in Swindle’s and gave two of his fingers a return squeeze. “I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice was softer than before. “…We both got lucky.”

“Ha, yeah,” laughed Swindle, and he offered a nervous and somewhat pained grin.

The pair lapsed into an awkward silence. Neither said anything more that night, but both eventually slipped into fitful, poor-quality recharge. Swindle’s hand was still curled around Stiletto’s when they woke.

**‡**

Swindle and Stiletto climbed aboard the _Prosperity,_ no longer leaning on each other for support—but staying close to each other, just in case. Blurr scuffed along behind them, _painfully_ slowly. As much as he didn’t want to be here, really _really_ didn’t want to be here, these two were his ticket back to Cybertron.

Eventually.

“All right,” Swindle drawled. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

“This is neither a show, nor a road,” said Stiletto. Her lips quirked in amusement.

“There _are_ no roads on Velocitron,” added Blurr. Both taller bots looked at each other— _oh, here he goes_. But, not seeing this, Blurr carried on undeterred, pacing in zig-zags behind the larger pair. “The concept of roads is an unworkable sort of infrastructure for this planet—they would limit high-speed traffic to a contained space, increasing the risk of accidents exponentially compared to the naturally flat expanses of Velocitron. And aside from that, those open spaces make direct travel between points much more practical than necessitating arbitrary turns and intersections. And especially considering the large size and low, similar in frametype population of the planet, it’s _much_ more convenient to leave the spaces open.”

Stiletto hummed. “Unlike Cybertron,” she mused.

“Yes,” Blurr confirmed, _“very_ unlike Cybertron, as that’s built in an irritatingly vertical fashion and with a multileveled grid structure to accommodate the more varied altmodes and size classes of the bots living there. It’s very practical for its purpose, but personally—and perhaps predictably, considering _my_ altmode and speed capabilities—I _quite_ prefer Velocitron’s approach to civil engineering.”

Swindle didn’t care enough to try and pick out the details in Blurr’s rapid chatter, but the smug sort of tone in the speedster’s voice said enough. He scoffed, amused. “If you love it so much, why not just _live_ here, Blurr?”

Blurr scoffed back at him— _his_ tone was more irritated—and, putting his hands on his hips, zipped around to the front. He looked up at Swindle with a condescending skew to his face. “Well, maybe I _would,_ if the Elite Guard didn’t need bots like _me_ to keep bots like _you_ from tearing up the galaxy!”

“Riiiight,” said Swindle, and he pushed past Blurr. Stiletto followed right behind him.

As the unusual trio settled into their places—Blurr perching on the edge of the small table between and slightly behind the two actual seats—Swindle noted a blinking light on the ship’s main display and hummed curiously. “Someone’s left a message,” he commented, observing the obvious. “Light it up, Stiletto?”

Stiletto sighed, reached over, and tapped the blinking button.

«This is Blitzwing,» the recorded message began.

Blurr sat forward and stared at the console, unblinking. Swindle looked intrigued; Stiletto was unreadable.

«I’ve separated from Galvatron’s forces and I… need medical attention. Meet me in the Croteus asteroid belt. We… we should work together.» The distinctive sound of Blitzwing’s faces spinning crackled through the comm line. «I want to stomp that pathetic excuse for a Decepticon leader into the—»

The recorded message hit its time limit and cut out with a fizzle and a pop.

For a moment, the _Prosperity’s_ bridge was silent. Then, Swindle turned his head and spoke up.

“What do you think, Stiletto? Could we use him?”

Stiletto deliberated for a moment. If Blitzwing could give them any intel at all, or even just serve as extra firepower… It would be worth getting him repaired and bringing him along, she decided. But if he needed medical assistance, it wasn’t worth betting that Shockwave would be able to give it.

“I’m getting Knock Out before we leave,” said Stiletto, and she stood from her seat and stalked off the bridge.

**‡**

The _Prosperity_ arrived before the triplechanger, but given the difficulty of space travel in altmode alone, that was to be expected. Swindle decided they would give him a few megacycles, maybe an average solar cycle at the most, before leaving. They swung into orbit around the star, partially eclipsed by the Autobot colony world of Croteus XII, and drifted along in a fairly scarce portion of the asteroid belt.

Stiletto spent the time in her and Swindle’s shared quarters ‘napping’ (in actuality, spending some time in her natural frame). Swindle tidied up the damage left by the trio’s fight… no, beating at the hands of Lockdown. Blurr paced the central hallway.

Knock Out set up an emergency medical bay in the back left corner of the bridge.

The medic had nearly completed the med bay’s construction when the bridge sensors picked up a Decepticon life signal. He straightened, squinted down the bridge at the screen display, and then padded to the doorway. “Swindle,” he called down the hallway, giving Blurr a dismissive look. “I think we’ve found our bot.”

“Excellent!” Swindle cried, leaping out of the nearest storage hold and shoving a nasty looking cannon into his transwarp chest compartment to put away later. He knocked on the door across from him sharply. ”Stiletto, my dear, wake up and come help me get Blitzwing inside.”

Muffled through the door, Stiletto groaned.

Swindle grinned fondly and turned to the aft of the ship. “Stay out from under pede, Blurr,” he teased, and pushed past the smaller mech.

“I don’t appreciate the insinuation that my smaller size makes me some sort of nuisance,” Blurr complained. He fell in beside Knock Out, following Swindle to the back of the _Prosperity._ “Blitzwing _may_ be a Decepticon and he _may_ be larger than the rest of us but that doesn’t give him the right of way!”

“No,” said Knock Out, “but he _is_ injured, and that gives _me_ the right of way.”

Blurr huffed. Swindle smothered a laugh into his fist. Grinning, the con mech keyed open the emergency seal over the _Prosperity’s_ damaged exit hatch. A moment later, Stiletto stepped up from the hallway behind and stood on the other side of the door. Knock Out joined Swindle; Blurr scowled, but then fell in beside Stiletto. She cast him a strange sort of look, something discomfiting in a way he couldn’t pin down, and he hastily looked out into space instead, watching Blitzwing’s unsteady, banking approach.

The triplechanger assumed his root mode and drifted into the _Prosperity’s_ entranceway. The artificial gravity caught him and his pedes hit the flooring with a heavy, hollow _klong_ sound. Blitzwing staggered.

“Easy,” said Stiletto, rushing to support him. Knock Out and Swindle shored him up on the other side, Knock Out already wielding a medical scanner in his left hand.

Blitzwing’s anger briefly took over (Blurr took a step back). “None of this journey has been so far,” he snapped. And then a wave of dizziness hit him, and his face switched again. He looked incredibly nauseated, blue face grayer than usual. His wings shivered behind him. “Ugh—I think I want to sit down.”

“Right this way, big boy,” Knock Out told him. “I’ll take care of you. Stiletto, help me with him.”

Stiletto and Knock Out led Blitzwing up to the bridge. Blurr waited, glanced a Swindle, and then dashed after the Decepticon he figured would pose a bigger threat if he grew violent.

As he settled into Knock Out’s makeshift med bay, Blitzwing groaned loudly enough Swindle could hear it. The con mech hummed to himself. “Wonder what his problem is,” he mused. He turned and shut the emergency hatch again, then followed the rest of the group to the front of the ship.

A quick glance established that Stiletto was speaking quietly to Blitzwing, whose frostiest face seemed to be locked into place. Knock Out already had him hooked up to a circuit numbing line and an intravenous fuel line. Blurr was sitting in the copilot’s seat, peering around the back of it at the proceedings.

Swindle decided it would be best to get out of the area. They were too close to Cybertron—and Galvatron—for any degree of comfort, so he flopped into the pilot’s seat once more and set a course for another sector.

**‡**

“I knew it!” Galvatron cried. He seized Strika by the collar and hauled her toward him. Their forehelms smashed together. Galvatron continued yelling over the sound of Strika’s grunt of surprise. “Blitzwing left, he could never be trusted! He was too much like Shockwave, too much like that traitor—Strika,” he said, suddenly whispering, optics wide. “Do you think there are other traitors among our ranks?”

Strika paused and considered her words carefully. “If there _are,_ my liege,” she rumbled, “there will not be for long. I promise you that.”

Galvatron cackled gleefully. “Excellent!” He grinned and shoved his general away again, then sank into his throne in a sprawl of limbs. “Go, then, and ensure the loyalty of my army!”

Strika righted her stagger and saluted. “Yes, lord Galvatron,” she said, and she turned and left the warlord’s throne room at a brisk pace.

She held her shoulders back and her posture tall and imposing. She looked every micrometer the powerful and high-ranking general she was, practically gleaming with pride. Galvatron had chosen _her_ to conform the loyalty of his army, not Tarn—not Tarn and his sneaky _Justice Division._ No, he had selected Strika—Galvatron’s general of destruction. Galvatron knew her justice would be swift, painful, and _effective,_ unlike the sleazy, torture-happy bots in the Justice Division who had allowed those dangerous bots such as Dezsarus and Black Shadow to escape them.

Perhaps that folly could put the Justice Division themselves under Strika’s mercy, if she played this right.

_I’m beginning to like this new approach to leadership,_ she thought, and she chuckled darkly as she shoved past Tesarus in the hallway. Tesarus shot Strika a dirty look, but Strika ignored her and carried on, imagining how she might turn the beige-hued femme’s grinder against her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey folks, sorry this took so long!! but the gang's all getting together now, so that's worth it, right--?
> 
> oh and btw i love the djd, don't worry! but general strika doesn't (mostly due to conflicting ideas about how wars are won and how to deal with traitors), so stuff about them from her point of view is... not very favorable >>;; you'll get to see some more tarn-pov stuff as well later!


End file.
